


Guard

by spinsters_grave



Series: Once Upon A Paladin [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Once Upon A Paladin event, a poem at the end, loose interpretation of the 12 Dancing Princesses fairytale, oh someone in here does have a bit of a potty mouth sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 10:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12651891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsters_grave/pseuds/spinsters_grave
Summary: Hunk had met a lot of prissy customers before this, and he'd meet a lot after, but none of them had ever asked him todance.





	Guard

Sunset didn’t paint the sky, Hunk decided, it painted clouds. 

 

Down the street came the distinct  _ hum _ and sharp pop of the streetlamps turning on. It looked and felt like magic, or the hand of some intimate god, but Hunk knew better. It was only an automated system down in City Hall. Magic wasn’t real, anyway. 

 

The sky was a deep cobalt blue when Hunk saw the boy. He stepped carefully, almost as if he was scared of hurting his feet. He wore plainer clothes than the customers of Electrolyte usually wore, which normally was not saying much, but this case stood out by the sheer H&M quality of the clothing. He joined the line. 

 

The girl in front of Hunk was underage. He drew the fat  _ X _ on her hand to tell the bartenders inside she could not have any of the fun drinks; her friends and her protested the fact. One of them slipped a ten-dollar bill in his shirt pocket (which he gave back). 

 

“I’m sorry,” Hunk said, and meant it. “It’s just my job. Look, are you going to go in or what?”

 

They threatened him with telling the manager. 

 

“I couldn’t get it off if I tried,” Hunk said, not without some dryness. 

 

The underage girl and her posse stomped off to the club with a huff. Next in line was the boy. 

 

“ID, please,” Hunk said, right when his phone dinged. It was his manager, and for a second, Hunk thought it was those girls. He dismissed the idea—they wouldn’t have been able to complain so quickly. 

 

**don’t let anyone in rn**

 

Hunk saw the boy reaching around in his pockets, so he texted a quick  **Why?** Back. 

 

**were at fire capacity, wait for 10ish to come out b4 sending more in**

 

Shiro was a decent texter, but there was barely any spirit to his messages. Short and professional, like how he talked, except when he gave his signature pep talks. He once told Hunk that everyone should text like that. The world would be simpler and no one would get butthurt by the letter ‘k’. (He had actually used the word butthurt.)

 

Hunk stuffed his phone into his butt pocket. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t let you in quite yet,” he said, slipping on his bouncer voice (the one that sounded like his bachelor uncle, the one with the handlebar mustache that played the trumpet). 

 

Soft bass thumped under their feet; an aftershock from the club upstairs. Electrolyte was on the second floor (first floor, in Europe) of a building near the city center downtown, on top of a Subway and a shoe store. Part of the room jutted out from the building, looking almost like a miniature, futuristic spaceship. The command center of the USS Enterprise. The windows were heavily tinted, but when purple light from the inside flashed, dancing silhouettes could be seen swaying to a muffled beat. 

 

The plainly dressed boy stomped one foot, very carefully. “Are you kidding me? The night just started! Didn’t you guys  _ just _ open?”

 

Hunk hid a wince (passed it off as a grimace). “We’re at our limit. I’m sorry, sir, it’s a small club. If you want to wait another few minutes, I’m sure—”

 

“Oh, you’re  _ sure.” _ The boy scoffed, his stare refusing to look at anything but the asphalt street. “They’re playing Ricky Martin! Of fucking—argh.”

 

Hunk didn’t know how the boy knew the music pumping from upstairs was Ricky Martin, but he decided not to question it. “Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down,” he said, placing one hand inches away from the boy’s quarter-turned chest. “Sir.”

 

The boy visibly deflated. “I’m calm, I’m calm,” he muttered. He crossed his arms. “They’re not going to play this again, you know.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Hunk said. “People like Ricky Martin.”

 

“You don’t even know who he is.” 

 

“Sure I do.”

 

“Whatever. I just—” The boy made an aggravated sound. “You can’t let me in just to dance? Not even for, like, five minutes?”

 

“I really shouldn’t,” Hunk said, then re-considered. “I mean, how many other people are with you?” He peered around the boy. There was only another couple in line, and a punk totally invested in his phone. 

 

“It’s just me,” the boy said in a hurry. He looked up at Hunk—his eyes matched the twilight’s cobalt blue sky. 

 

“Um, okay,” Hunk said, shrugging. “I mean—wait, did I ever check your ID? You have to be 21 or older to go in by yourself.”

 

The boy’s face, which had been slowly filling with hope, collapsed.  _ “Seriously?” _

 

“Yeah,” Hunk said, nonplussed. 

 

“The Sugar High lets people underage in,” the boy groused. 

 

Hunk bristled at the mention of their uptown rival. “Then they’re breaking the law. Listen, kid, you should just go home.”

 

“Kid—? N-no. No I cannot. Go home.” The boy sighed and dropped his head in his hands. “I just—I can’t.”

 

“Okay—okay,” Hunk said, a bit warily. “Listen, man, you can wait out here for a little bit, and I’ll text Shiro, and I’ll see what I can do.”

 

The boy wavered. “You’d do that?”

 

Hunk sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, mindful of the ribbon. Back in one of his old high schools, the teachers gave out stickers or whatever McDonald’s toys to kids who had “done the right thing when no one was watching.” He never knew how they could  _ know. _ “Yeah.”

 

The boy grabbed Hunk’s arm, then just as quickly let go. “Sorry. Thank you—thank you.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” Hunk said, meaning it. 

 

They stood in silence for a while. At least, Hunk stood—the boy bounced along to the beat from upstairs, sometimes throwing his hands out to the sides. 

 

“Dance with me,” he said, obviously on impulse. Didn’t stop a brilliant smile from crossing his face. 

 

Hunk had to run through the words twice to understand what they meant. No one had ever asked him to dance before—sex, yes, from people who had heard the Studio Killers song and watched the video. Dancing, not so much. 

 

“Dance?” Hunk asked, still not quite believing it. 

 

“Come on, come on,” the boy said, backing up from the door and the black velvet rope (twenty bucks on Amazon). He stuck out his hand, turned down like Spanish people down. The ones from Europe, anyway. 

 

“I’m not a good dancer,” Hunk said, unwilling to move. He was also a  _ professional, _ but didn’t bother saying that one out loud. 

 

“Thanks for the warning,” the boy replied, not without some dryness. “I’ll lead.”

 

“I don’t even know your name,” Hunk said, but it was a weak protest. Names were easy currency. 

 

“Lance,” the boy said. For a moment, Hunk forgot the word was even a name; only the weapon came to mind, thin and sharp like the boy that bore its name. 

 

“Lance,” Hunk repeated dumbly. The word fit oddly in his mouth. It pulled the vowel more than Hunk wanted it to. 

 

“And you’re Hunk,” Lance said, when Hunk took a step to follow that siren boy. “Fitting. Nametag.”

 

It was even harder to hear the music from the asphalt street. Still, Lance swayed his beanpole hips like no one could see him, like he really was in the club upstairs, with the purple light washing over him in waves. 

 

“This can’t possibly be Ricky Martin now,” Hunk said. He bobbed on the balls of his feet. Never had been a good dancer—he didn’t have the body for it. Not like Lance. 

 

“It’s not,” Lance said, absent-mindedly. “Dah dah dah… attention,” he sang. “You don’t want my heart…”

 

“You’re just making sure I’m never getting over you,” Hunk sang back. “Charlie Puth. Course.”

 

Lance grabbed both of Hunk’s hands in his own, wheeling them back and forth like how train wheels worked. He was better at it than Hunk, who didn’t know how to do anything, so just let Lance move his arms like he was a dead fish. “I know that dress is karma, perfume regret…” He had the biggest, brightest smile in the world. 

 

“Got me thinking back when you were mine,” Hunk murmured. He had never been very good at higher notes. 

 

“And now I’m all up on ya… what you expect?”

 

“But you’re not coming home with me tonight,” Hunk sang, and meant it. 

 

Lance twirled around, casting his hips around like he was trying to draw some intricate symbol. He got closer to Hunk; with every step, his arms went higher and higher up, until it looked like he was surrendering. 

 

Hunk could not, did not, tear his eyes away. This was quickly becoming dangerous territory—not that he was unexperienced, but he didn’t especially  _ want _ to be seduced tonight, or any other night. Not in the rapidly disappearing twilight. 

 

“What’s the matter with your family?” Hunk blurted out, a desperate grab for a change of subject. 

 

Lance’s hands dropped to his sides. “What?” he asked, slightly out of breath. His chest rose and fell under his thin button-up shirt. 

 

“You said you can’t go home. If you need a place to stay, I know Shiro—” 

 

“Oh, no, no,” Lance said, relaxing. “It’s just my, uh, curfew. I snuck out.”

 

Hunk took a quick (hopefully subtle) step back. “Curfew? How old—”

 

“Nineteen. I know— _ way _ too old to have a curfew. It’s ‘cause all my siblings have one, so I do too, so it’s only fair. We all sneak out though.”

 

Hunk let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, so—you’re only a year younger than me, ha ha,” he said, tacking a small laugh on the end. “Man, I thought all of a sudden you were like, a teenager or something. Almost gave me a heart attack.”

 

“Twenty? You’re as old as Julie and Sam,” Lance said, probably referencing those siblings Hunk didn’t know. “Hey man, less talking, more dancing. Follow my lead—I’ve been itching to dance since I got up this morning.”

 

His hand looked soft, extended in Hunk’s direction. He regarded the offering, then looked down more, at Lance’s feet. For some reason, he wore ballet shoes, the kind that belonged on stage or in a studio. Out of all the things about Lance, that must have been the oddest. Ballet shoes. 

 

Hunk took the offered hand. Lance smirked with his perfect, brilliant teeth. 

 

The last of the twilight bled from the earth. As they danced to the muffled beat of the club upstairs, Hunk felt his spirits rise, become less inhibited. He didn’t care that he messed up every other step. He had  _ fun, _ and that was what dancing was all about. 

 

Lance tossed his head back and laughed. He was so different from the prissy boy Hunk had seen in the line earlier—this Lance simply loved life. 

 

Hunk did not step on Lance’s ballet shoes. 

 

The world never quite looked like the world at night, when it was only streetlamps and stars. The purple glow from Electrolyte warred with the yellow of the streetlamps, making a whirling storm of the still autumn night. Hunk’s mothers would have called it unseasonably warm. They also would have said to Hunk, maybe while pinching his cheek, that on nights like this, anything could happen. Even magic things. 

 

A few orange, brittle leaves blew along the street, chasing a breeze only the could feel. The couple in line were caught up in a passionate kiss, the other kid in line still on his phone. Lance held on to Hunk’s shoulder and hip, breathing hard, scant inches between their matching grins. His eyes were dark. The purple and yellow light fought a battle across his features. 

 

They breathed together for a moment. The music broke. 

 

“Magic is real,” Lance whispered, then vanished. 

 

END

 

 

 

Every single thing

Changes and is changing

Always in this world.

Yet with the same light

The moon goes on shining. 

 

–Priest Saigyo

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This marks a couple special occasions: the anniversary of my AO3 account, and myyyy birthday!! One year ago to the day, I made my account here and posted my very first work (Radio). That wasn't the first time I had been brave enough to post my writing online, but the first time the online community a) heard about it and b) actually _cared._
> 
> A username change, 104 or so comments, two gift exchanges, gender self-discovery, a multitude of big bangs, a zine, and two or three internet friends later, it's my birthday again! I decided to give myself a little Hance. I was lucky enough to have the awesome [Once Upon A Paladin](https://onceuponapaladin.tumblr.com/) event land on my birthday, and there are a couple more stories on here that I'm giving to myself as well! 
> 
> I always give a little bit back on my birthday—today it was homemade fudge to my real life friends and teachers—so today's song recommendation is [Jupiter by Sleeping At Last.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqrEox67O78) (I'll tell ya, it was a real difficulty finding a good poem and song for this one.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope the story lives up to your expectations, and please remember that kudos and comments are always appreciated! Please yell at me on [Tumblr!](https://reaadmydumbfanfiction.tumblr.com/)


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